


America

by sirius



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:14:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22743841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirius/pseuds/sirius
Summary: If anyone can think of a better motherfucking title for this, hit me up.I'm so sorry to anyone who lives in these places that I have described so poorly, using Google Maps.Road trip filth.
Relationships: Alexander Albon & Lando Norris & George Russell, Alexander Albon/Lando Norris/George Russell
Comments: 8
Kudos: 100





	America

_September 2019 - Oxford_

George was deemed the most responsible one to film the three of them on the plane en route to Scotland. Their mid-season road trip in the USA? A very different matter. A “what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas” matter. Except, of course, for the private videos. Not destined for social media, no responsibility is needed to film those. The opposite, in fact.

They squash up on George's room-dominating sofa, to watch the spoils. They have beer, Quavers, and Alex's favourite black kalamae, which George eats like a starving man, and which Lando avoids because it “looks weird”.

“All of us are F1 drivers and not one of us has a proper house,” George says. “It's so Gen Z.”

“You can still come to mine,” Lando says. “Moving takes a while. It's not my fault you live in a shoebox.”

“Lando, you've literally just got a mini fridge, your sim, and a bed in your flat. Nobody is going to go there.”

“Alex, you live with your parents,” Lando says. “In _Milton Keynes_.”

“Alright, it's a bit of a mood killer.”

“Yeah, not like this den of sexual energy,” George says. “It really sets the mood, doesn't it. Getting close. Alex's feet against my arse. Lovely.”

“You never know, you might just get lucky.”

“Promises promises. Lando, what the fuck are you doing back there?”

“Plugging things in. Henry VIII probably watched this TV, it's that old. Don't eat all the crisps.”

“Can't promise that.”

“Can someone put their iPhone torch on?”

George gets up, moves Alex's feet, and goes over to help. The pair of them manage to connect the laptop to the large TV screen, which depicts the first of the mini-movies they have to watch. It's Lando's. The footage is blurred almost beyond recognition, and quite possibly upside down.

“Another fine work, Mr Scorsese,” Alex says. 

“You haven't even seen it,” Lando complains, coming around. “And you've eaten _loads_ of crisps.”

“There's more in,” George says, soothingly. “Come and sit with me. I don't want to sit on his toes anymore. Too erotic.”

Lando gets comfortable next to George, who shifts closer to Alex and takes his legs over his own knees. They form a snug pile, and neither comments that the crisp bowl ends up in Lando's lap. 

“Alright,” Lando says. “Let's start.”

_August 2019 – Sedona_

Like so many fairytales, it starts like this: “Once upon a time, in a land far far away, three Brits were driving along the US 89A.”

In truth, it starts a bit earlier than that. They'd fought over who'd get the best bargain car at the used car lot. All had agreed that George gave off far too much of a clueless Tory vibe. Alex, they'd thought, would do well, with his steadfast refusal to allow himself to be humiliated and his fanatical desire to win. In the end, they picked Lando for his potential to lure an unknowing salesman into believing that this was his very first car. The possibility of virginity lost on the backseat; of road tripping in the heady pre-college summer haze; of re-enacting an old man's young American dream...

What they'd overlooked, of course, was Lando's difficulty in inhabiting the role of a confident ladies' man, just an engine away from Paradise By The Dashboard Light with half of the American west.

“Alex, tell us your feelings about the car,” Lando says, from behind the camera. “Isn't it fucking magnificent?”

“How many miles to Vegas again?”

“350,” George says, from the driver's seat (fight #2 – not caught on camera), “give or take.”

“Christ,” Alex says. “Er. Yeah, I mean. It has wheels? The doors are still attached? It might make it 350 miles or it might break down in the middle of Death Valley, exposing us to coyotes and dehydration.”

“Alex needs an attitude adjustment,” Lando says. He turns the camera to face George, far too close. A slice of big blue eyes, two day old stubble. An alarmed man, with a small 'phone in his face. It's inelegant and perfect.

“I like it,” George says. “It's a bit sticky. But I like it.”

“That's what she said,” Alex says. 

They pull out on the 89A. Alex is in charge of the sat nav and (they pray they won't need it) the map. 

For a really long time, it doesn't feel like a road trip. The road is wide, and they pass a lot of familiar stores. The momentary novelty of the eccentric (Stone Age Crystals and Psychics) is fleeting. It's when the road starts to feel less travelled by that the fun starts. Black tarmac gives way to thick banks of red rock and foamy soil. Cars become fewer and fewer. Banks grow into small hills of bright terracotta, intimidating. Alex's navigating takes on a reverent quality, and the playlist he's chosen (fight #3 – not caught on camera) begins to feel authentic. Wiry bushes and parched trees dot the landscape. And then, a very large flat rock comes into view. It has the coat of a water spaniel, except where fur should be there are tight curls of green vegetation. The large road becomes narrower, abandoned, only for the brave. The green rock becomes two, three, seven; they all lose count. It leads them closer to the State Park without giving any sense that they're making progress. There were blue skies when they set off, but now murky clouds gather overhead, whipped into foam by the tall rocky landscape. 

Lando captures all of this, in his way. Wobbly, no aesthetic, but nonetheless capturing every moment of the emotion and the presence. His directorial eye is wide, and it sees Alex's look of wonder. It sees George craning his neck, moving his sunglasses onto his forehead. It hears the sound of Lando's breath. It is their unselfconscious excitement, their profound fearlessness.

***

Red sandstone against the setting sun; it's clichéd iconography. Every Western ever made. The American Dream. The Great American Road Trip. Paradise By The Dashboard Light. And yet they all sit on the bonnet of the car at Crescent Moon, and it feels as though nobody has ever been here before. Lando films from his lower resting place between George and Alex's legs. His footage is absent human noise, only animal. Cathedral Rock is a grand God in the distance, casting all light red. The ebbing warm of the engine is more than made up for in scarlet sunset. The footage bobs, and – back in Oxford – Alex smiles at the memory of stroking a gentle hand through Lando's curls.

A bird calls overhead, and the camera moves to meet it. It's a hasty dark blur, anxious to get where it's going. No features are obvious. And yet, each of them can picture it precisely, in that moment. The spread of its wings, the soar of its call. The hum of the wind gathering it along.

They must have sat there for at least an hour; the sun had set behind the great rock, before they left. By the time the footage ends, almost nothing is visible at all. At least, to the human eye. 

“At the time,” Lando says. “Remember? Everyone said it wouldn't come out.”

“I really thought it'd look like You've Been Framed,” George admits. “But it's just...”

“Perfect,” Alex finishes. “It's like being back there. Remembering it.”

“I remember my arse getting burned by the bloody engine,” Lando says. 

“Isn't that on the film?” Alex asks. “That's heartbreaking. It was brilliant cinema. George getting the cream out in that seedy motel.”

“That sounds a lot worse than it was.”

“At least he cared about my poor arse,” Lando says.

“Lando,” Alex says. “I do nothing but care about your poor arse.”

***

“We're going to be murdered,” Lando says.

“There's a Walgreens just over there,” George says. “We're not going to be murdered.”

“I dunno, mate,” Alex says. “There's something dodgy about the name Sugar Loaf Lodge.”

“It has a 'pool hotspa'. It's fine.”

“People can be murdered in places that have pools and hot tubs.”

“If anything, I think the hot tub increases the chances.”

“Guys,” George says. “We're ending this trip in Vegas. I think we need to man up.”

“I do want to put cream on my arse,” Lando concedes.

“That's what she said.”

“Shut _up_ , Alex.”

“Alright. So we'll book three rooms-”

“It's Arizona. Isn't polyamory the thing here?”

“I think that's Utah. And neither of you are going to pass as my wives.”

“Three rooms it is.”

After they check in, Alex heads to the nearby grill-house and picks up craft beers and tamales. When he brings them back to the room they're using, George is lazily rubbing cream on Lando's arse, and both of them are focussed on what looks like a 1970s soap opera. Someone is incredibly concerned about the future of a beauty parlour.

“I got tamales. Every flavour they had. And a few cheese quesadillas, because all the tamales had salsa in them and I didn't want a repeat of the Park cafe incident.” 

(Fight #4 – unrecorded.)

“Look-” Lando says. 

George takes the bundle of food, shushing Lando with a small smack on the back of his thigh. “Nice.”

They crack open the beers, dole out the food. Contented munching occupies the room for a while. Every so often, George stretches out and checks the absorption of the cream as Lando demolishes the quesadillas. It strikes Alex that this should be gross, but instead it's charming.

“Your arse is bright red,” he says. 

“I'm aware.” Lando says.

“C'mere.”

Lando moves over to Alex, shifts against him. Alex wraps an arm over him. George watches them both, eyes lidded. On the TV, many more people are now concerned about the beauty parlour. George wipes his hands on his jeans, then takes them off, and shucks up the bed beside the others. As night falls, both he and Lando fall asleep. Trouserless, in long t-shirts, snoring. Alex finishes his beer slowly, savouring it. It's a weirdly enjoyable feeling, warm beer in a cheap motel room in the middle of nowhere.

***

George wakes first in the deep moonlight. He shifts, which wakes Lando, never a good sleeper. Lando yawns wide, stretches wider. That ultimately wakes Alex. A few unspoken moments is all it takes. They all agree, wordlessly, that the very best idea in the entire known universe at that moment, is to get into the outdoor pool.

It takes an even shorter amount of moments to realise their terrible folly. 

They stand, starkly illuminated starkly naked, dipping their toes in. George feints to take the lead, which prompts Alex to throw himself in feet first. He claps his hand over his mouth to stifle the scream, which is quieter in any event than George and Lando's howls of laughter.

“Not heated, then?”

“Nope. Not h-heated. Not even close. Fuck. Get in here then!”

“Oh yeah, you've made it look so enjoyable.”

“I can't feel my balls.”

“Jesus,” George says. “I'm going in.”

“Save the balls,” Lando says. He sits down on the side, dipping his feet in.

George holds his nose, and jumps in after Alex. They wrestle playfully in the water, and Lando splashes them with his feet. 

“Fuck, it's freezing,” George spits, holding Alex's head underwater. “Fuck, fuck! Who'd do this voluntarily?”

“Blaeugh,” Alex spits, surfacing. “You wanker. You absolute-”

He reaches out, suddenly, and catches the ankle of an unsuspecting Lando. With George's help, he pulls him into the water, and the pitch of Lando's screech could split the sky. He surfaces, soaking wet, coiled with cursing, and flat-hands a wave of water right into Alex's face.

“You pair of fucking-” he stutters. “I hate you both. Oh my God, I'm going to _die_.”

“Aw, baby, c'mere,” Alex laughs, pulling him close. “C'mere, don't be grumpy-”

“I hate you and I hate your face.”

“He looks so good wet.”

“Shut up George.”

“Give me a kiss.”

“I'm going to punch you in the face.”

“Kiss.”

Lando narrows his eyes at Alex, considering. He's starting to shiver, so George moves closer, warming him with his body. Lando responds to it, curling inwards. His eyes find Alex's, and Alex moves closer from the front. They form a protective shell, and in that space Alex's lips find Lando's, and George's lips find Lando's neck. They move towards and around each other; hot mouths finding cold limbs. The moonlight beams its milky light down on ripples of water made by love.

Try as three young men might, they reach their limit at making freezing pool water sexy. They shiver their way back to the room, throw themselves on the comfort of the bed, and everything reignites just as easily. Alex lies on his back and Lando chases him with frantic kisses. George follows, his torso shaping itself on Lando's back, Alex's hands stroking spine and stomach at once. George kisses and sucks the back of Lando's neck, and Lando replicates it on Alex. It's frenetic but without hurry. 

“I think my dick's gone inwards,” Alex murmurs. “It's so cold.”

“Same,” Lando says. “Whose fucking idea was that? Ah, G, there. That's so nice.”

“I, on the other hand, have lift off,” George says.

“You fucking liar,” Alex says. “That's not possible. Lando-”

Lando moves his arse back, into George's groin. Two groans; one smug, the other cross.

“He's telling the truth,” Lando says. “Fucking wanker.”

“ _How_?” Alex howls.

“What can I say,” George says, hands on Lando's hips to keep him still. “I'm an alpha. You're a beta. Also Lando's dry-humping me.”

“Stop wanking on me,” Lando says. 

“I'm not wanking on you.”

“You are! You're moving!”

“If I were wanking on you, I'd do this...”

“Oh. OK. Yeah. That's... yeah. You can do that.”

“I'm still here,” Alex says.

“You're flaccid,” George says. “Nobody is listening to you.”

“Lando, is he- what's he doing with your arse cheeks?”

“I dunno. It's nice though.”

“You know what, thank God we're not filming this. It'd be the least erotic sex tape of all time. If it got leaked, people would ignore it. They'd watch the news instead. That's how bad it is.”

“I dunno,” George husks. “I like it.”

“I hope your cock falls off.”

“Alex,” Lando says. “Kiss.”

Alex tears a cross gaze away from George, and his face softens. “Kiss,” he affirms. They do. 

Nothing about Sedona, the Sugar Loaf Lounge, the pool hotspa, or the frottage on a soaking wet bed, is conventional. Just like Lando's footage, it's messy, inarticulate, rough. But, just like the three of them – George gasping lowered jaw into the curve of Lando's back, Lando's shoulder blades lowering and rising with kisses and Alex's gripping hands, Alex's short huffed breaths stunted in Lando's mouth – it's absolutely perfect. 

Much later, they sleep with the curtains open, the blankets kicked to the floor. There's no rhyme or reason to the arrangement of limbs. Still, they wake up refreshed.

_August 2019 – Grand Canyon_

The distance from Sugar Loaf Lodge to Grand Canyon village is just over 100 miles, moving through routes 89A, 180, and 64. They decide to get breakfast en route, and unlike the day before, there's no argument about who will drive. Lando slips into the driver's seat, insistent that he doesn't need a map-reader, so George and Alex take the back.

“It's a straight line through forests,” he says. “Basically. We'll be fine.”

“You're the boss,” Alex says. George has a hand on his knee. 

“Don't shag,” Lando says. 

“Not without you,” Alex says.

“Uh-huh. I'm not listening to your music today either.”

“Alright,” Alex says. 

“He's too calm today,” Lando says, to George. “It's freaking me out.”

“It's because he's hungry,” George says.

“I am hungry,” Alex says, mildly.

“OK,” Lando says. “Next stop: pancakes.”

***

Loaded up on pancakes and coffee, Alex falls asleep on the backseat. Lando finds a radio station that, inexplicably at 11am, is playing house music, and George puts his feet up on the back of his seat to steady the camera. They drive along a slender road lined with gargantuan thin trees. The sky is a cool, deep blue, with only the merest puff of cloud. The fields beyond are sunny yellow, and – were Lando to turn the radio off – the delicate trills of birds could probably be heard. George captures this with the precise objectivity of a documenter, the footage steady and bright as the sky.

When they reach Flagstaff, they stop to watch a humongous red and orange freight train boulder through it. Lando does then turn the radio down, to hear it, and George captures the screech where metal and metal must meet and compromise. Alex, of course, sleeps through the entire thing. George captures that, too; the serene look on his face as he dreams, face mushed up against the glass and George's yellow hoodie. 

“I used to want to be a train driver,” Lando says. “With a hat, shovelling the coal in. Like in the old movies.”

“I can see it,” George says. “I think F1 is probably better, though.”

“Yeah, I went off the idea when I went on the tube,” Lando says. 

“I wanted to be a vet,” George says. “For elephants, specifically.”

“OK, F1 isn't as good as that.”

“No, but I'm not clever enough. Ah well. F1 will do.”

He turns the camera to Alex.

“Alex,” he says. “Sleeping Beauty. What did you want to be growing up?”

“Mmrr?” Alex says. “A dragon. Right now, though, I really want to pee.”

They're lucky, to have the forests. Lando pulls over to the side. 

“I thought it'd be you, I have to say,” George says. 

“Everyone always think it's going to be me,” Lando grumbles. “Everyone. They ask me if I've been before we set off, like I'm five years old. And every time, it's always Carlos. It's never me.”

“That's because you don't drink enough,” Alex says. 

“I drink like, seventy cows per day.”

“Not on race weekends.”

“They won't let me drink that much milk on race weekends.”

“There you go.”

They find some nice sheltered spots, close enough to talk but not so close as to make it weird. 

“Now I feel like I'm road tripping,” Alex says. 

“Yeah,” George says. “Forget the car, and the mountains, and the music, and the motels. Take Albon into the woods and let him piss on a tree, and he's in heaven.”

“Can't even argue with it,” Alex says. “It's nature, innit.”

“I hate peeing outside,” Lando says. 

“You have to not think about it,” George says. 

“I can't. It feels weird. I'll just wait for the next gas station.”

“Nobody's going until you've had a pee.”

“Alex, that's fucking weird. It sounds like I'm five years old.”

“It's a rite of passage. Plus knowing you, there won't be any gas stations and you'll have to go in a bottle.”

“I actually don't think I could.”

“I don't think he could,” George agrees. “He locks the bathroom door on us.”

“Shall we meet you back at the car, mate?”

“Yes please,” Lando says. 

“If you don't return within the hour, we'll call the police.”

“Fuck off.”

***

Fed, watered, relieved; they continue on. They pass Humphrey's Peak, which is sweetheart-beautiful, surrounded by huge summer fields and green trees. George takes a selfie of them all in front of it, by the car. Then another, after Alex has put his tongue back in his mouth.

They continue on. Alex takes over the driving, after fight #5 (unrecorded).

“There're bears in Kaibab National Forest,” he says. 

Lando looks up from the map. “I don't like bears,” he says.

“In the forest, mate,” George says, sleepily. “They won't come out onto the road.”

“We're getting close,” Lando says. “Are you filming the trees, G? They're weird-looking.”

The trees aren't tall and thin like before, but short and stout, turning golden orange. Their leaves are open-palmed with spiky fingers. They seem better warriors, for all that they're slight. George films their glossy golden blur. Alex drives more quickly than Lando, and they make much better time. They arrive at Bright Angel Lodge almost an hour ahead of schedule, and they make the most of the last of the sunlight, stretching their legs and looking around. 

“It does look more promising,” George admits. 

“I'll miss the hot poolspa,” Lando says. 

“Don't, I'm still in mourning,” Alex chides. 

Bright Angel Lodge is – to Alex's slight sorrow – indeed far more promising. The walls of their cabin are light aspen, the carpet thick and plush. The bed is enormous and squashy, the shutters high-quality. There's a wonderful scent of nature, and a silence so deep it almost feels as if it's been paid for and ordered specially. There's even a log fire. 

They sleep like the dead; transported almost to another world.

***

They head out, bright and early, from South Kaibab trail (which, somewhat ludicrously for people going on a long hike, they have to access by shuttle bus from the lodge). The way is steep, hardy, enough to make them feel like Proper Adventurers.

“Bit more authentic than Monaco hills, eh Alex,” George teases, and Alex gives him a shove that, from Lando's point of view, punts him terrifyingly close to a drop. 

“If he dies, I will leave you,” Lando mutters.

“If he dies, I go with him,” Alex says. “One cannot live whilst the other survives.”

“I don't think that's what that means,” George says.

“Accept my love, peasant.”

“Such romance.”

“That shove is going to make the footage look like mine,” Lando says. 

“Good point,” Alex says. “I'll shove you next time.”

George does very cool panoramic shots, which Alex tries – and mostly succeeds – to photobomb. The effect is – in Oxford – hilarious. One moment, it's startling black and white footage of huge boulders. The next, it's Alex with his tongue wide, his eyes crossed, his eyebrows raised. Like a BBC nature documentary on steroids. 

“And here,” George says, mock-Attenborough. “We have the Thai-British moron. He's not in his natural habitat, here in this desert wilderness, and it shows.”

“This,” he continues. “Is Norris' territory. He has the bladder of a camel. The stoicism of a bald eagle. Here, he flourishes.”

Lando giggles.

“George's footage is going to be so much better than ours,” he says. 

“Hey,” Alex says. “I haven't had my turn yet.”

***

They stop midway to Cedar Ridge, some five thousand or so feet up. The Colorado river runs clean and fresh and slow, far below them. Stones make rocks make mountains. The sky above is as clear as the water below. They pause, to catch their breath. George is panning around, committing it all to film, when Lando collapses into hysterics.

“Norris has, now, succumbed to altitude sickness,” he says. 

He turns, camera and all, and Lando is throwing hands at the small wooden sign that denotes the spot. On it is written in proud, almost Comic-Sans audaciousness: 'Ooh Aah Point'. 

“That's what she said,” Alex says, at which point, Lando has to sit down he's laughing so hard.

“It can't be called that,” George says. “What kind of mug-”

“Ooh! Aah!” Alex says. 

“He's got a point,” Lando giggles.

George continues in his mockumentary voice. “This sign, it seems, captures the true sense of life on this planet. On the one hand, mountains whose sheer size takes the breath away. On the other, a human was responsible for naming them. It does make one question whether, in fact, the human race is worth saving.”

“Lando's arse is covered in red dust,” Alex giggles. 

They pose – red dust and all – for a serious selfie. As serious, of course, as they get when they're together. It now hangs, a large canvas, in George's flat in Oxford. A crisp blue sky illuminates their faces; bright, earnest, alight with tiredness. They're sweating and dank with wet red dirt. Lando is, particularly, covered. He looks as though he's been rolling about on Mars. All of them look besides themselves with pride at their accomplishments. To anyone else, the picture is about three friends, arms around shoulders, conquerers of the natural world.

To them, it's the three of them, together at 5,000 feet, laughing their stupid arses off over terrible jokes. And then heading back down the trail for ice cream and hopefully a nice shag. 

After eating their weight in ice cream in the Harvey House cafe, watching the sun setting in the canyon they've claimed as their own, they retire to the cabin for a well-earned rest. George films Lando's amusement at discovering that the bath is in the room itself, haphazardly given privacy by a rather ineffective screen (which is quickly relocated). Alex climbs in first as the others turn the TV on, faintly hoping for the next saga in the beauty parlour soap opera. It isn't to be, and they settle on some sort of National Geographic feature on the geology of what they've spent the day trekking. Lando begins to fall asleep against George's shoulder. 

“Is it big enough for two in there?” George asks. 

“Three, probably, given Lando's a midget,” Alex says. 

“Such a nice invitation,” Lando says. 

“Let me get rid of some of the bubbles, hang on.”

“You're such a diva, Al,” George says. 

“It's good for your skin,” Alex retorts. “Alright, I've topped it up a bit with warm water. A romantic bathing experience awaits you. It's not a hot poolspa but it'll do.”

George climbs in first, hands on Alex's shoulders. The water ebbs madly, and they have to pause so as not to flood the cabin. Lando watches, critically, sleepily, from the bed. Once George lowers himself down, Alex surrounds him with his legs. The water stills, and George leans back, eyes lidded. Lando succumbs to temptation. Alex, as before, helps him in. The water, alarmed, rolls back and forwards, skirting the very top of the tub. It settles as Lando does, between George's legs. They sit, a relaxed caterpillar.

The calm doesn't last. It never does. George hums pleasure. 

“Is that Alex's hand?” Lando says.

“Mmm,” George says.

“Where's mine then?”

George laughs, gives him a reach-around. “Better?”

“Mmm.”

“Cheers mates,” Alex says. “It's fine, I'll just sit here.”

“You're not fucking me in the bath,” George says. “Not after what happened in Canada.”

“OK, that was ill-advised.”

“Use your other hand,” Lando murmurs.

“Clever Norris.”

“I didn't get into Mensa for nothing.”

The water shucks, lazy, as they lie still but for hands shifting. It shouldn't be relaxed, not at their age. Everything should be new, still. Frantic. Rushed. Impassioned. But then, nothing about them, at this age, is right. They're all in F1. None of them own decent houses. None of them have girlfriends (singular) or friends with benefits (plural). They exist in an easy relationship of three, each one balancing out the others. A triangle with equal sides. The world is theirs, and this world involves three in a bath, taking pleasure slow, undignified hot breathing, shifting bubbles here and there. Tipping hair full of water back on one another, as pleasure rolls back between them. It doesn't matter who comes first. It doesn't matter that it muddies the water. It doesn't matter that it doesn't look good, sexy, young. What matters is that they feel it, all as one. Pure. Fulfilled. Whole.

_August 2019 – Las Vegas_

The distance from Bright Angel Lodge to Las Vegas is 280 miles, moving through routes 64, 40, 93, 11, 515 and, of course, 66.

They're all ridiculously excited about 66. Alex is put in charge of the filming, and it really is the perfect choice. Capturing 66 without it looking like every film ever made is no mean feat, but Alex manages it. The fact that he features three guys kissing might have something to do with it. 

George takes the 66 stint, allowing Lando to work with Alex to choose shots, angles, moments. He's patient enough to pull over when asked, to reverse without complaint, to pose and re-pose as Alex scampers back and forwards. Lando, on the other hand, has to be cajoled with a role in the directorial process. 

Together, they manage to get the top down on the car, which helps. Alex sits on the rear, up high, and films George driving; Lando curling towards him with his feet up on the dash; the long stretch of beautiful desolation ahead and behind. The pine forests close up would be thick and lush, but from the car, they're tiny thorny bushes in the bleak barren sand. The sky is like the open ocean; deep blue, unknowable. They drink Diet Cokes from stripy straws in glass bottles; they wear oversized sunglasses and jeans with rolled hems; they kiss in sunlight and shade. Alex's favourite footage is Lando, held off the ground, legs around George's waist, arse resting on the edge of the car. Lando's hi-top Converse are loose-laced around the ankle, arms around George's neck, bottle resting against George's shoulder. They kiss against the sun, in silhouette, a 1950s Levis commercial updated for the 21st century. 

“Fuck,” Alex says. “You guys are so fucking hot, it kills me.”

George pulls back, grinning. Lando draws back, tilts his straw to George's lips, lets him drink. Showing off, as only Alex could get them to. He can't stop smiling. 

That mood keeps them going through the next three hours. No bickering, no whinging, no napping. They eat burgers, play the radio loud, talk about everything they ever want to do together. Hopes, dreams, love. They ride the small roads until they become the big roads, and by the time they hit the Interstate 515, they're ready for the bright lights.

***

They reach the Vegas strip at nightfall, and it fans out for them in a welcoming neon buzz. Lando leans over the side of the car; initially Alex grips the back of his trousers to keep him in the car, but then the excitement overcomes him and he leans over, too. Pressed against his back, he wraps his arms around his torso, kisses him sloppily on the ear. George watches them in the rear view, smiling, as he turns off for The Cosmo.

They park up, and then head out onto the strip. It's been a long day of driving, and Alex can tell when George is aching to warm up his muscles. They walk for an hour or so, until they happen upon a giant ferris wheel, billed as the High Roller. After some negotiating – with both the booth staff and with Lando – they manage to grab a private capsule. 

They're off the ground for approximately 83 seconds before Lando announces that he wants to get off.

“Why did I agree to this?” he says, firmly planted in the centre-seating. “I'm going to fall to my death, and it'll be all your fault.”

“You're ruining my footage,” Alex says. “You should know that. George is out here, looking fine, and you're a tiny whiny midget in the background. More than normal.”

“It is very high up.”

“It's about 25 feet off the ground.”

“If I jump, would I survive?”

“Lando, for fuck's sake-”

George goes over, sits beside him. “Keep your eyes level. Just watch the view. Don't think about the height.”

Alex sits down, by the glass. Films the vast expanse of bright neon, the night sky burned blue with light pollution. The road they travelled on, for half a day, to get here. The beautiful, sparkling expanse of wealth, of prosperity, of a future. He smiles, to himself, then turns the camera around. George sits behind Lando, legs around him, kissing the back of his neck. Despite himself, Lando is smiling. Alex remains where he is, and slowly, gently, points out the landmarks. Lando calms in the combination of George's touch and Alex's words, and once they hit the top, Alex leaves the 'phone recording and goes over to join them. He climbs up on the central-bench, legs crossed, and Lando puts his head on his shoulder. George wraps an arm over him, touching Alex's with his fingertips as they exchange a smile.

***

“Buggering hell,” Alex says, as they approach the Cosmo. It's the architectural equivalent of Batman. Black, sheer, angles, the size of a small country. Lando has to close his jaw for him; a pointless exercise, as it drops again when they enter the lobby. Fifteen feet digital columns line the space, each one displaying footage of vintage Las Vegas Chinatown. Red and white characters and animal symbol spin and slide past as the three of them walk through it, turning in circles to chase them.

“Can we even afford this?” he asks. 

George shrugs, amused. “Just,” he says. 

“I've gone blind,” Lando says. “Where's the check-in desk? Is this really a hotel? I feel like I'm on drugs.”

“Lando needs a nap,” Alex says.

“In a dark room,” he agrees. 

He gets his wish, when they check into the Terrace Suite. It's wall-to-ceiling windows; black marble; the sparkling replica Eiffel Tower beaming through. A private terrace, overlooking the fountain show.

“It has two bloody bathrooms!” Lando says. 

“Useful if two of us get the shits,” George comments, throwing himself down on the large, plump mattress with a happy sigh. “Aunhgh, my back.”

“Old,” Alex says, climbing on beside him, and applying firm hands. “Old, old man.”

“This bath is bigger than my entire flat!” Lando shrieks.

***

The plan had been to take to the terrace to watch the fountain show. They have room service, drinks, they're clean and fluffy in gigantic white towelling robes. Only: the best made plans, etc.

“I've been thinking,” Lando says. “The bathrooms.”

“Mm?” George says.

“One of them... I think Alex would like it.”

George frowns, confused, but Alex catches on much more quickly. “The one with the window?”

“Yeah. The floor-to-ceiling window.”

“Looking down on the fountain show? The city below?”

“Mm-hm.”

George's eyes have glazed over.

“It's misted glass,” Alex adds, quickly. “There's no way-”

“Not from this height,” Lando adds. He hesitates slightly over the word, but presses on.

“OK,” George says. “Let me see.”

Alex clinks Lando's glass as George goes for the inspection; ever the sensible one (though that's a low bar). He returns, solemn, and downs his drink. It's an affirmative signal. If we're doing this – we're doing this. Alex stands up, quick, ready. Lando grins, slow and sly, savouring the last dregs of his milk. Then, he follows them both into the bathroom, brushes his teeth as they strip off, turn the rainfall water on. Watches as they get the party started; Alex, running wet warm hands over George's abs, swearing, both cross and aroused. George, both palms around his neck, bringing him close for a kiss that turns rough in a heartbeat. Apparently, it isn't only Alex that gets off on the idea of their exposure in the window.

Lando slides in through the glass, grabs George's hand as he walks across the slippery floor. He slots in between the two of them, George's hands steadying his hips, Alex dipping his head down to kiss him. He reaches up in turn, roughening them, so that Alex turns him and they end up against the wall, Alex's hands pinning Lando's above his head and sliding mouth down over his Adam's apple. George watches, hungry-eyed, walking through the spray to get closer, but not yet interfering. Only when Lando moves to jump does George step in. Alex holds Lando's weight, hands splayed over his arse, presses him up against the glass window. George takes up position behind Alex, hands circling his waist, nose to nape of neck. Lando – shielded from the drop below – drops his head back, bringing Alex in closer. 

“Lube,” Alex murmurs, as George strokes his back, feeling the affirmative nod. George comes around, and between Alex holding and kissing and nuzzling, and George's deft fingers, they prep. Lando resists the urge to flex into it, aware of the tension in Alex's forearms. He murmurs his appreciation instead, until Alex growls at him, needy and hard as iron. Lando smiles unconsciously, feeling the heat between his own legs, and Alex's too.

“You should fuck him,” he says, to George. Offering him a kiss, as his fingers work. “As he fucks me. You'd be fucking us both.”

Alex veritably snarls at him.

“I was thinking that,” George says. “Great minds. Albon?”

“Fuck,” Alex says.

“Yes, that was the question. Well done, Sherlock.”

“ _Yes_.”

“Good boy,” George says. “Get him hot for me. I want him begging by the time you're ready to take me on.”

“George,” Alex says. “You're a bossy fucker.”

“And you love it.”

Lando laughs against Alex's obstinate lips, clutches legs tight to pull Alex fully in, without warning, without flinching. Alex gags on sheer pleasure, bites objection into Lando's collarbone. George looks, amused, over his shoulder. 

“Don't move,” he says, to Lando. “I'm gonna prep him. If he comes in you now, you'll still be complaining in a week.”

Lando nods, holding position. Alex – helpless – just whines. He gets a pat on the back, and isn't entirely clear which patronising fucker it's from. 

It's forgotten as soon as George's fingers fill the space, the need, the ache. As into Lando, as George into him. He has to force himself not to move, because to push back would be to pull out of Lando, and Lando's weight is still heavy in his arms, Lando's breath hot on his neck. He tries to pretend he's somewhere else; the dentist; the doctor's. Somewhere where no lustful thoughts could ever intrude. The white coat is just there in his mind, the pointy metal instrument designed only to cause pain, the fucking _voice_ of the hygienist telling him to floss _even in his sleep_ – when George's fingers find the sweet spot, and he cries out, unclear in that moment whether he is bearing Lando's weight, or vice versa. Lando's arms hold his shoulders tight, take the sound, the feeling, and when he comes to, he's cursing his proximity to the end.

“Get. Fucking. Inside. Me,” he hisses. It's a tone that he rarely deploys, and he can _hear_ George's eyes briefly consult Lando's. Finding acquiescence takes a little over a second, and then he's spread wide and white hot as George's hips move forwards, and he gasps into the welcoming bite of it, because he knows it'll pull him back from the brink. His teeth find Lando's neck again, again, again; he wonders what he'll have to wear to disguise tomorrow's marks. Thinks, inexplicably, of the digital art in the lobby. Sliding doodles of red. 

“Oh, fuck,” George whispers, and suddenly, it's on.

Lando's legs are held in George's arms, around Alex's hips, touching George's. Lando instigates the pull-push, sating the contact he's been waiting so patiently for during the minutes of pause, and the cry he makes tells them both that he's felt every second of it. Alex flattens his palms against the glass, his eyes taking in the bright lights below, the gushing plumes and arcs of water, the glittering streets, the sounds of life lived. He trusts Lando to hold himself, with George for additional support. George holds Lando's legs, uses them as ballast as he fucks Alex strong and steady, breathing hot gasps down the back of his shoulders. George resists a bite until he really has to; it's something Alex really likes, normally, but now he wishes George was chomping on him, because he's far closer to coming than he'd like to be.

Neon light sweeps upward from the streets, almost as if propelled by the fountain show, and it douses their wet bodies in crimson, fuchsia, amethyst, sapphire, emerald. Alex's skin is alight with fizzing white water as he pushes forward and is pushed forward, as he draws back and is drawn back. Lando's neck is shot through with neon green as he presses wet curls against the slick, steamy glass. George's arms are peppered purple as he presses nose into rigid curve of shoulder blade, cursing a word echoed back and forward with their hips. In the end, holding off is Lando's curse; the renewed contact is too intense, and he can't take it. His hips come forward as he tilts Alex's head up with a chaotic hand, trying to keep him from getting it full in the eyes, hits his chin instead. It's new, and it's accidental, different, and Alex can't cope with it; he rushes forward, pinning Lando against the glass, comes harder than he ever has. He drags George against him, pressing Lando's body harder still, intensifying his come down, and Alex feels the sure snap of his upper molars in the soft flesh of the crook of his neck. He and Alex combined in a noise like distant thunder.

***

They sit, in the shower basin, for a while afterwards. Warm water rains them slick, cleans them, calms them. Lando's legs tremble. George's, too. Behind them, the moon rises and Las Vegas continues to awaken. Lights are playful on their heaving bodies. The fountains outside are gone, and water flows over tangled limbs in a gentle flattery.

_September 2019 - Oxford_

They watch the last dying moments of footage. Alex's, filmed in bed the next morning. Vegas, bruised after another night's revelry. Getting ready to do it all again. It echoes in the three of them. Lando snores between the two of them. George is dozy, lidded-eyed. Alex is bright, bushy, full-fucked and lark-like. 

“George,” Alex says, leans in, as the camera focus shifts to meet the mattress. White fills the screen, and laughing is all that's left.


End file.
